Finding freedom in the confines of prison
If you think you’re free, there’s no escape possible.
Everything can be taken from a man but the last of the human freedoms—the right to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, the right to choose one’s own way.
It was 1993, and I had been making my weekly thirty-mile trek from my home in Austin, Texas, to Bastrop Federal Correctional Institute for the better part of a year. Each Thursday I worked with inmates in the prison drug and alcohol rehabilitation program, and afterwards I taught creative writing to any man who wanted to join our group.
During my drive on this day I recalled my first trip to Bastrop a few years earlier. I remembered my own deep fear of stepping inside the prison walls that, at first, repelled me. And I remembered my strong desire to be of service to those men, a desire that I didn’t fully understand but that propelled me forward. Nonetheless, when I first heard the stories of transformation of inmates and volunteers alike at the weekend personal awareness workshops, I avoided participating for a year or more. My entire body literally tightened (yes, especially my sphincter) at the imagined sound of that big metal door slamming shut behind me.
Once I began my regular trips to the prison, it didn’t take long to realize that these guys were much like me; they had similar abilities, dreams, passions, unexamined beliefs, blind spots, fears. And, of course, transgressions that had been committed. I connected at a deep level with a number of them, rejoiced with them, cried with them, broke bread with them, and helped support them to grow and make a fresh start. The intelligent, compassionate Colombian attorney convicted of money laundering who served as translator for the numerous Spanish-speaking men at Bastrop. The Caucasian writer who was a model for those who wanted to quit blaming others and take responsibility for their own lives. The Native American artist who had killed in a fit of rage and would likely spend the rest of his days behind bars for it. The taciturn African-American, hard as a rock, who one day let a silent, solitary tear slip from behind his sunglasses.
I saw men who were imprisoned literally living lives of monks. I saw them adopting new ways of being, taking responsibility for their lives, cleaning up their past, learning to trust, yes, even to love. And I knew that if they could do that while incarcerated, I could no longer wallow in the prison of my mind. I could no longer make excuses and blame others for my shortcomings. I could no longer wish for a better past. I could no longer let my fear hold me back. I could no longer be a spectator. I would embrace my past and live my life fully from that point on.
With support from my friends inside and outside the prison, intensive workshops, and a great deal of personal discipline, I reclaimed my integrity and my authenticity. I committed to telling the truth no matter what, and I set about creating the life I had previously only dreamed of. I also began to forgive, to let go of resentment, to atone for my misdeeds, and to seek reconciliation. Closure with former wives and lovers, acceptance of family members just as they were, clearing up old debts. From time to time I would collapse under the imagined enormity of my task. But my path was clear to me.
If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. I heard that from more than one of the inmates at Bastrop FCI. How many of us, I wonder, continue to do time for our real or imagined offenses—some of us behind barbed wire or concrete barriers, some of us in our mental prisons of lies, pretense, fear, guilt, shame, regret, anger, or resentment? During my brief stretch at Bastrop, I believe that I helped some of those guys find freedom within the confines of their prison cells. And they, in turn, helped me break free of the shackles with which I’d restrained myself.
Monday, January 1st, 2001No Comments »
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